


That Girl (Is A God Damn Problem)

by handful_ofdust



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Multi, cisswap au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shift the gender dynamics of a situation, and interesting things surface: that's the idea, anyhow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking for a while about whether or not Brianna Blake would be better-adjusted than Philip Blake. Turns out yes...and no. Same with Erica Grimes.

The week her husband Sean dies, Brianna Blake wears the only black dress she has to his funeral, then goes home afterwards and throws all the other ones out: her backyard grilling fake-1950s florals, her sensible, solid citizen skirt and jacket combos, her sole go-to-church ensemble with the gloves and that stupid fucking pillbox hat. Comes back into work a few days later wearing black jeans, shit-kickers and one of Sean’s shirts over a t-shirt her big brother Philip used to wear when he was working on his truck, same one says SEMPER FI DO OR DIE on the front, with THIS CLOSE = TOO CLOSE stencilled on the back. Ross the Boss takes her aside at lunch to discuss it, even without either of those messages on full display.

“Listen, Brianna,” he begins, “we all know you’ve had a family tragedy, but…there’s a dress code in effect. Business casual, remember?”

“Hmmm, uh huh; wrote that memo for you myself, actually, so yeah, I do. And?”

“Um, well…we’re gonna need you to comply, is all, or we can’t really have you in the office.”

“Telecommute it is, then, I guess, from now on. You good with that?”

“Uh…”

They have two general meetings before the rest of the world goes straight to hell, with Brianna doing her part over Skype, and for the second, she doesn’t even remember bothering to put on pants. Not that it matters, anyway; Ross isn’t really ever gonna fire her, not so long's she's the only one with both sets of books. And soon enough, it just doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

“Why you get rid of all your nice shoes, Mama?” Penn asks her, cautiously, in mid-cull. “Don’t you want to look pretty anymore?”

“Not really, honey,” Brianna tells him. “I never did. Never _was,_ either.”

“I think you are.”

“Oh baby, that’s nice. But you kind of have to, don’t you?”

“Girlie,” Merle Dixon will tell her, a month after Penn’s dead too, “you ain't nothin’ but six damn feet whatever of trouble.” To which she’ll just nod, glancing over at Milton where he’s hiding in the corner, and laugh, because the wound of her sweet, slightly dim, lamentably biddable little boy's passing’s still too bloody-raw--too goddamn _immediate_ \--for her to do anything as practical as letting herself weep.

“Y’all should see me in heels, sometime,” is all she’ll reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Smell of the dead filtering in, those lurching bastards. Merle Dixon can't tell what time it is otherwise; they've been inside this Atlanta shitbox so long, cloths pinned up over the windows, marinating in the goddamn darkness like a bunch of steaks, gettin' high off the smell of their own sweat. It's hot as Hades, as the Old Man used to say. Hot, and wet, and close.

“Water,” he grinds, through numb lips, only to flinch as Brianna Blake elbows him right in the gut, growling: “Don't _have_ any, idiot, no more'n we did an hour ago. Now stay quiet and wait it out, so we have some damn possibility of gettin' any, later on.”

“Oh yeah? And just what makes you think that's gonna happen?”

“Hmmm, I got my strategies in place. Just not too likely to tell you about 'em, 'til I have to.”

“And why not?”

“That'd be 'cause you're not well enough to contribute, basically. But maybe _just_ well enough to fuck 'em up, if I let you.”

“You really are the world's own queen bitch,” he complains, and she gives that disproportionately deep bark of a laugh of hers, rough enough to scratch all his tenderest places.

"Aw, you think? Damn, if that's not the very nicest thing anyone's told me since the world ended, Mister Dixon; thanks for that, a lot. Makes me feel all _pretty._ ”

He'd been stuck in this apartment two whole days already when Brianna and her group stumbled in on him, not quite bleeding out exactly, given he'd stopped to cauterize his stump before making a break for it and leaving that damn department store behind. But he'd been weak, far too much so to put up any sort of a fight—still is, to tell the God's honest truth, and doesn't she know it. So here he stays, tied to this goddamn bed, with the longest, tallest drink of female water he's yet encountered in this brave new world alternately shoving antibiotics down his throat and holding a knife to it, while that nutless lackey of hers, that Milton, deals with the rest of his necessaries.

“Fever's going down,” the geek murmured to her, yesterday, while she nodded. “He'll be good to go, soon...if you want him to survive the trip, that is.”

“Huh, good. And why wouldn't I, Mister Mamet?”

“Um, I don't know? Besides the obvious, that is—his disability, as well as his, uh...attitude...”

“Oh, attitudes can always be readjusted, you just work hard enough at it; you're livin' proof of that, aren't you?” Adding, as the man flushed just a tad, eyes downcast behind his glasses: “'Sides, anybody works as hard as he already has to survive's got a powerful will, and that's useful, always. A man like that, I want him on my side, not thrown away like garbage. He's a goddamn human pitbull.”

“I agree. But pitbulls can be...dangerous.”

“To the wrong people, sure, and in the wrong hands. Loyal as all hell, though, you treat 'em just right.”

Which made Merle bristle a bit to hear, in the moment, like: _oh, so you think I'm a_ dog, _huh? Fuck you, lady._ Thing is, though, he knew even then it was more true than not, as an overall assessment. And so does she, damn it all, 'cause ain't she just so fuck-almighty _special: the one, the only one/built like an amazon (huh!)._

Not-So-Little Miss Blake herself, long legs always kept crossed at the ankle like a model while she cleans that knife of hers on a rag she keeps in her vest-pocket, or strips and oils her gun; Brianna Blake, with her superhero name and her ever-assessing blue eyes, brown hair pulled back in a braid then twisted back up on itself and secured with wire, so it ain't left long enough for anyone—any _thing_ —to grab hold of. Brianna Blake, so angular you can't even barely tell if she's fuckable half the time, 'til she all of a sudden fixes you with a stare narrow-hot as some acetylene torch's flame and _smiles,_ same way she does when she's got a biter on either side and a weapon in either hand.

Merle's somewhat come to fear that fuckin' smile and want it turned his way nevertheless, both at the same time. And given he ain't as dumb as he looks, that definitely does bother him, at least a tad...but not enough, probably.

Not hardly _half_ enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Men are sentimental by nature, or so Brianna’s often observed—her mother always said so, that bitch from hell, and in this one instance, she’s found she has to agree. Just look at Milton with his theories, desperate to believe those flesh-hungry shamblers outside have any spare shred of their former selves still left inside, waiting for somebody to pry it back out again; that they can be _reached,_ let alone cured. But she knows better—has since the moment what used to be Penn opened its filmy eyes again and bared its bloody teeth, all but daring her to hug it close enough to bite.

No, though; to put it that way’s giving the corpses far too much credit, too much capacity for forethought. That...thing held not even the faintest echo of her child, which is why her otherwise legitimate, surprisingly painful grief simply cascaded off of it, no purchase found, like greased pigskin. Which, in turn, made it relatively easy for her to just cock back the hammer, whisper a final “Night-night, baby boy,” and send that potential horror back where it came from.

After, it’d been him again, if only for a moment. The one and only moment she allowed herself to think about what she’d just done, feel it as deeply as she was capable of, before moving on.

She still remembers Milton, right after, eyes wide and wet behind his glasses, stammering: “But why, why would you...you could’ve, I could’ve...”

“Could’ve done what? Nothing, and we both know it. I mean, I get how you want to think different, but we have to practical, at least for now; I _need_ you, just like I need Merle here, or Cesara, or Chevonne. Need all of y’all so we can get ourselves out of this crap-heap and someplace we can clear out, fortify, someplace we can _live._ And so long’s you play your part, Mister Mamet, if you still want to mess around with biters and call it science after that, then you can feel free t’do so, to your heart’s content. But you’re gonna have to agree to leave _my son_ out of it.”  


_Hell, I never really wanted to be a mother,_ she’ll tell Michonne, one day soon, in Woodbury; _that was all Sean’s idea. Didn’t even know if I could_ get _pregnant, ‘til I did._ To which Michonne’ll just shrug, and say: _But you loved him anyway, didn’t you? That boy of yours. Couldn’t help it, to some degree—and I’ll bet that drove you_ crazy.

To which Brianna will snort, shrugging as well; hitch a half-laugh, not quite able to kindle it into a complete guffaw before it turns in on her, goes dour. Then cross her arms like she used to when she was a kid and give the swordswoman her best side-eye, getting an equal dose of the same in return. Because they already know each other so well, she and Michonne, in their own odd ways; better than either knows Andrea, for sure, no matter that Bri’s all up in that lovely gal’s fine lace panties already, or Andrea—her lioness’s mighty heart set entirely aside—will ever know either one of them.

Truth is that while watching Andrea go through a herd is a magical thing, no doubt, none of her enthusiastically efficient zombie-slaying makes her anything like a real killer. Whereas Michonne’n Brianna, they’ll do exactly what they have to, given enough reason—wherever and whenever, to whoever. Brianna found that out the easy way at the start of all this, when some fool ran up on her and Penn and tried to jack their ride, only to fall back with a ragged red hole through his eye-socket; found it out the slightly harder way later on, after they made Woodbury at last, when she “had” to unbutton her blouse and shake out her hair, then give that stupid ass Gavin a wink, a smile and a long, deep tongue-kiss, before sticking the wire she’d just slipped from her braid right in his neck and popping his carotid.

When she pulled it back out, the blood sprayed up and hit her straight in the face, like a sticky red firehose—freaked his National Guard buddies out so much they barely seemed able to consider reacting, waiting just long enough for the rest of Brianna’s group to’ve already laid into ‘em with a collective grunt and howl, just like the wolf-pack she’d watched them train themselves to be.

“You could run this place, girlie,” Merle told her, later that same night, but Brianna just shook her head. Asking him in return, mockingly: “Now, why in the hell would I want to do _that?_ Naw, whoever takes the throne’s gonna be stuck either watchin’ his own ass forever or gettin’ someone like me to watch it _for_ him, and I already know which job I prefer.”

“Sure, yeah. That, an’ ain’t no redneck born wants to take orders from a woman, anyhow...not unless she’s got his balls in her fist.”

“You include yourself in that estimation, Mister Dixon?”

“Depends on where my balls end up, I guess.”

“Hah! Well, just keep on keepin’ ‘em away from me, like usual, and we’ll get along just fine.”

To which he made a face, as expected, but only a bit of a one; gets enough of a voyeuristic kick out’ve watching her operate, at this point, to be pretty much okay with the fact she’s good and truly switched her internal compass back from Men On Occasion to Girls All The Time. But then again, what began as a simple strategic decision—who the hell wants to be pregnant during the apocalypse, let alone saddled with a baby?—will eventually prove to pay off in so many other ways, it’ll be kind of hilarious. Like she’s leap-frogged into crone status while still in her prime, an elder stateswoman with a tart tongue but the community’s best interests at heart: everybody’s honorary grandma, if grandma got more ass than a toilet seat.

She’ll take it, though, and no damn mistake, just the same as she’ll take everything else; whatever’s offered, along with a lot of things that aren’t. And no one ever will seem to notice, up to a certain point...

...‘til Michonne, to be exact. Amusingly enough.


	4. Chapter 4

When Merle bangs on Brianna Blake’s door and she opens it with her hair hanging free, that ratty-ass plaid housecoat of hers wrapped not particularly tight over a wealth of long, rangy nakedness, he ain’t all too surprised—does like her siestas, that one, ‘specially when she’s entertaining some chick. But when he spots that familiar spill of blonde hair over her shoulder, protruding ever-so-slightly from her bed’s nest of rucked sheets, he can’t quite control a great guffaw of surprised delight.

And: “Oh _HO-lee_ shit,” he finds himself blurting out, “ain’t really _you_ in there, is it, blondie? Goddamn well _knew_ I was right ‘bout you bein’ a rug-mucher!”

“Just ‘cause I said I’d rather die than do _you,_ end of the world aside? Screw off, Merle,” comes Andrea’s muffled voice, in reply.

Brianna all but shoves him back outside, long fingers spread across his chest. “You done?” She asks. “What’s so all-fired important, it couldn’t wait ‘til tonight’s general meeting?”

“Oh, I somewhat think you’re gonna like this one. Me an’ that kid, Gar-whoozits—”

“Garjulio.”

“Whatever! Anyhow, him an’ me were out on a run, tripped across two people comin’ out of a drugstore...girl and a boy, girl I didn’t know, but the boy I do. Part of that group I told you ‘bout, back outside of Atlanta; same one Andrea got cut from, as it happens.”

“The farm group?” Brianna knits her brows a bit, assessing this. “With that lady cop leadin’ ‘em, right? One who—”

“—left me handcuffed to die on some department store roof, so’s I hadda saw through my own wrist or get ate up whole? That’s them, all right, but they ain’t there anymore, obviously. Won’t say _where_ the rest’ve ‘em are holed up now, though it’s gotta be close—up out in the red zone, maybe, or just past.”

“Huh. _You_ told me that was impossible; nowhere to live, out there. Or am I wrong?”

He flushes. “Hey, blondie an’ that Nubian Queen of hers were out there all winter, weren’t they? Did all right for ‘emselves, ‘sides from the pneumonia.”

“True enough.” Raising her voice, then, she calls back, without turning: “Andrea, get your pants back on and c’mon over here, will ya? Need t’ask you ‘bout something.”

“He gone yet?”

“Not quite, honey. But he’s sorry he shot his mouth off—aren’t you, Merle?”

“The fuck I am!”

Brianna fixes him with that patented got-you-out-of-Atlanta-when-thousands-wouldn’t’ve glare of hers, no more surprised than she is impressed. Growling, as she does: “Don’t be a dumb-ass, _Mister_ Dixon. After all, I know where you sleep...now apologize to the lady and let’s just get the hell on with it, ‘fore I decide to do something with that information.”

To which he snorts, but knows damn well she’s not bluffing; do it in a heartbeat if he don’t back down fast enough, of that he’s no damn doubt, or even if he does, it comes to suit her interests later on. So he shrugs, huffs out, and does.

“Sorry,” he says, finally. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Andrea pokes her head out, blouse and jeans back on, if not entirely re-secured, and grimaces when he can’t quite help leering. “ _Sure_ you didn’t,” she replies, hackles up, then relaxes just a tad when Brianna slips her arm ‘round her waist. Adding, finally: “...but then again, I don’t really expect anything different from you, so...what was you wanted to ask?”

“Merle ran across some friends of yours, but they won’t talk to him; no surprise there, I guess, considering how y’all parted ways. Names are—” 

“It’s that Chinese kid, that Glenn,” Merle puts in. Adding, as Andrea rolls her eyes: “Okay, _Korean,_ for shit’s sake! Got some gal with him, too—pretty as all hell, and twice as fierce. Though you might know her, maybe.”

Andrea frowns. “Dark hair?” To Brianna, as Merle nods: “Sounds like Maggie Greene, then. Hershel’s daughter.”

“The vet, huh? Could use another medical type ‘round here, just in case.”

”Well, sure—but if he’s still alive, I’m sure Erica Grimes feel the same way. I mean, last time I saw her, she’d just found out she was pregnant...”

Merle laughs again. “Seriously? Oh man, y’all are better than a damn soap opera!” Then adds, shooting Brianna a look as his brow hikes, just shy of a wink: “But that’s what happens when you let women take the wheel, ain’t it?”

Brianna shrugs. “Ignore him,” she tells Andrea, who’s already back in mid-bristle. “Point is, this Glenn doesn’t want to spend more time jawin’ with Merle than he has to, for which I don’t entirely blame him. Think you could take a crack at it?”

“Well, I...all right, sure. But then we let them go if they want to, right?”

”’Course we do, once everybody’s weighed in on it—this is a democracy, not a dictatorship. You know that.”

Andrea pauses, then nods, then smiles when Brianna smiles back at _her,_ all wide and sunny and contradictorily gentle. Once again, Merle’s struck by the sheer damn skill with which Brianna can pile it on, when she wants to—the charm, for lack of a better word, ‘specially when coming from somebody who professes not to think herself much of a charmer. And Christ knows, she can be blunt as all hell; still remembers how she used to mock him right to his face, back in those early days: _aw, “ol’ Merle” needs his medicine...well, it’s just too bad for him old Brianna doesn’t give a damn, then, isn’t it?_

_Hey now, girlie, don’t be mean—I’m hurtin’, damnit! Cut my own hand off, didn’t I? I_ need _them drugs!_

_Oh, I think you've had enough drugs to last you, over the years. You get antibiotics, that's it; Milton can dole it out, once you stop whinin’._

Merle remembers staring at her, mind a-circle like a penned-up hound, chasing its own tail. Then demanding, at last: _Who-all was it did this to you, made you this way? You tell me his name so I can kick his ass, our paths ever cross._

She just looked back, equally baffled. ‘Till: _Made me like_ what? she’d asked, in return. Like she didn’t even understand the question.

Back to the present now, standing shoulder to shoulder while Brianna waves after Andrea, the both of ‘em watching that fine ass sway on its way down to Holding; probably follow fast enough once she gets her own kit back on, even knowing Cesara and Chevonne’ll be eyes-and-earsing it up on her behalf while blondie and the Chink have their confab. Merle taps her arm with his stump, bayonet safely on his belt, and observes—

“You really do like her, huh? And not for just the obvious reasons.”

“Sure, everybody likes Andrea. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

 _Ain’t_ everyone _playin’ hide the...I don’t even KNOW what on the regular with her, though,_ Merle could point out, he cared to risk it. Instead, however, he just agrees, which is usually the best policy. “...true ‘nough.”

Brianna’s gaze stays locked on the woman in question’s high-and-mightily straight-held back, that blonde hair bouncing, even as Andrea finally hoves out of sight. “Yeah, it all just sounds a little better comin’ out of her mouth, don’t you think? No matter what. She’s like a perfect delivery system. People look at _me,_ they can tell something’s a bit off, but they tolerate it, ‘cause they know what I can do; you and me both, for almost the same reasons, and Milton too, poor baby. We’re outcasts born. Andrea, though, she makes ‘em all love her, just like with Michonne—hell, that’s her very own katana-bearing resumé right there, walkin' 'round and talkin'. She was _made_ for the spotlight, like I was made to stand behind, and steer.”

“Oh, I get it now. Better than old Rich Foster, huh, if you hadda choose? I mean, best he can do is try and make ‘em think things are gonna get better, they only wait long enough...”

“That’s right, ‘cept for the fact even the dumbest hick in here knows they never will, so that undercuts everything the man says. Got Milton working on all manner of ridiculous shit designed to keep us up to show-home standard, like some kind’ve damn oasis, when we should be hunkering down for the long haul—stop all the barbecues and the cold drinks and start giving every damn person in here gun training, so even if we happen to lose our militia we got another one right behind, ready to take its place. Like a shark’s teeth.”

Merle frowns. “Just what you think’ll be comin’ our way, girlie? Some kinda...mega-herd, or something?”

She nods. “Eventually, probably; more people we collect, more noise we make, the dead’ll keep on comin’ ‘til there aren’t any to come. But the _real_ problem’s gonna start after that.”

“You mean people,” Merle says, after a moment. For which he’s rewarded with a nod plus another smile, tighter this time and a fuck of a lot less friendly, by far.

“That’s right,” Brianna Blake says. “Whoever told you you weren’t smart just plain wasn’t paying attention, Merle—dead’re our protection for now, as well as our primary threat, but one day soon, that’ll all go by the wayside. And that’s when they’ll come runnin’, sniffing after everything we still got that they don’t anymore: guns, food, water, women. Hell, I’ll bet you five imaginary bucks there’ll be somebody out there hunting folks down and eating ‘em by the time things turn around, if it ever does; they’ll be going crazy in groups, forming cults, wearing biter-skins and worshipping the damn things, like any other apex predator. It’s just math.”

Merle hawks and spits, stomach suddenly gone a trifle queasy, not so much over the images she’s conjured as the too-calm way she’s been going about it. “You got a lamentable view of human nature,” he tells her, and she doesn’t bother to deny it. Simply shrugs one more time, reaching for her pants, her boots...that black quilted vest with a long-sleeved tee to go under it, tight enough she doesn’t have to bother with a bra. Plus the belt she always wears over it all, that huge knife of hers sheathed on one hip, her holstered gun on the other.

“C’mon,” she says, maybe trusting him to make sure he looks the other way while she shrugs off her robe, or maybe just not caring whether he does or not. “I don’t wanna leave her in there alone too long, ‘fore I make an appearance—but I can’t have you messin’ it up any more than you already have, either. So go find me Milton instead, and Michonne as well, while you’re at it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Merle throws back, the mockery in his voice pretty much all lip-service. Then pauses on his way out to ask, though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer: “You want Foster in on this, too?”

“No, I don’t think so. When he needs to know, I’ll tell him.”

“’S what I thought,” Merle mutters, walking away.


	5. Chapter 5

The Korean kid’s pretty reasonable, all things considered, but that farmer’s daughter keeps on glaring daggers at her, like she thinks Brianna’s gonna bend her over a table or something—which actually might be fun, granted, but more than slightly antithetical to the task at hand.

“Glenn,” Andrea says, “we don’t mean you any harm, okay? Either of you. Merle...well, you know how Merle is. He made the wrong call, and nobody was there to talk him out of it. But we’re gonna get you out of this and back on the road in no time.”

“So who gave him free reign to grab people up off the street, anyway?” Glenn asks, and Brianna raises a hand, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Guilty,” she says. “Forget sometimes myself just how far he’s come, our Mister Dixon, not to mention how far he’s still got left to go—intentions’re more good than bad overall, these days, but he’s still a tad quick off the trigger. That’s my mistake, and I’ll own it.”

“Uh huh. And you are?”

“Brianna Blake’s my name, Mister Rhee. I’m head of security here.”

“For whoever’s in charge?”

“For Woodbury, in general. It’s an elected position.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“Well, to be frank...bunch of people thought I should have the job, that’s all, and I elected not to fight ‘em on it.” She smiles. “But that’s how it works, ‘round here—they ever get to thinkin’ I’m unfit, they can just vote to remove me and elect somebody else. Like with our mayor, Rich Foster, who you can meet later on, if you’re so inclined.”

“He know what you’re up to, in here?” the farmer’s daughter—Maggie Greene, Andrea called her—demands, to which Brianna just shrugs, sighing. “Trusts me to deal with things he doesn’t need to, and tell him when he does,” she replies. “But then again, that’s the nature of the job, isn’t it, in law enforcement? Your own Officer Grimes’d back me up on that one, I’ll bet.”

Glenn Rhee looks down, slightly; Maggie Greene’s lips crimp. Brianna makes sure to note both those reactions and file them away quickly, for further reference, without making any sort of reaction herself. Simply stands there broadcasting _safe safe trustworthy safe, no threat, none at all_ out her pores, like any good authority figure.

“I’ve heard of you,” he says, finally. “You’re the one they call the Governor.”

Brianna frowns. “What? No they don’t. Who-all calls me that?”

“Well...Merle, a couple minutes back. When he was still in here.”

The revelation brings on another sigh, for real, this time. “I’ve told him not to,” Brianna remarks, to nobody in particular. “Haven’t I, Andrea? But he never does listen.”

“That’s Merle, all over,” Andrea agrees. Which shifts the balance of the conversation safely back to her again, so’s Brianna can go back to studying the pair at her leisure. They’re deep in love, that’s fairly plain; probably consider themselves married already, even without the benefit of clergy. Which is fine, whatever—people cling to whatever they need to cling to, to get ‘em through. She just hopes they’re practicing safe sex, unlike their putative leader.

So yeah, trouble in paradise, there; what a surprise. They’re happy enough to see Andrea, under all the posturing, but there’s obviously something lurking at the bottom of the coffee-cup vis-a-vis Officer Grimes herself, and eventually young Mister Rhee can’t help but to let it slip: she’s a widow now, twice over, by some standards. And she’s not taking it all too well.

“They’re no sort of threat at all,” Brianna tells Rich Foster, later on. “Remember how we already went scouting that place, Merle and me? Well, the whole back half’s knocked out, and the fact they ever got in the front speaks far more to dogged persistence than it does to sense. Apparently, the first thing they did was stumble on a bunch of holed-up cons and get their only medico crippled—Maggie Greene’s father, Hershel. Had to cut his leg off when he got bit; man was in a coma for two days, now he’s stumping around on crutches, with only a teenaged girl, Grimes’s twelve-year-old son and two of the cons for back-up.”

“But he’s still _alive?_ ” Brianna nods. “Amazing. They sound like true survivors, this bunch.”

“Well, ‘course they do, but what’s it prove, exactly? Everybody we meet’s a survivor, at this point. Doesn’t mean we have to be takin’ someone in just ‘cause they got a gun and a badge, ‘specially when they’re so palpably unstable...”

Foster shakes his head, raising a hand. “Now, now, Bri—things change, don’t they? Remember what this place was like, under Gavin and his pals; wouldn’t’ve given much for any of our chances, back then. And look at us today.”

 _Yeah, sure—and who’ve you got to thank for_ that? She wants to snap back, but doesn’t. From what Rhee and Maggie Greene’ve said, she’d been surprised if Team Prison, as she’s already started to call them in her head, manage to make it through another winter; they’re nomads, spent the last six months running, hiding and starving, and all they’ve got the show for it’s a bag of guns with almost no ammunition left and two ratty cars, plus a chopper whose fucked-up muffler might as well come with a _food over here, come shufflin’_ sign.

That cache of canned food in the prison caf’ll keep ‘em alive ‘til next year, tops—for Christ’s sakes, it not like they have a _tank,_ or anything. Gavin and his group could’ve wiped ‘em off the map, just like those idiots whose ‘copter dropped out of the sky the day they found Andrea and Michonne, and where are they now? Dead, that’s where, with their trucks parked outside Foster’s office and their fifty-cal gun all ready to go, should it be needed to: more of Brianna’s work, not that she expects much acknowledgment for it. No point in expecting what you never get, after all.

”So what is it you’re saying here, Mister Mayor?” she asks, finally. “Want to invite Erica Grimes and her pals in for an interview, let ‘em get a good look-see ‘fore we have to cut ‘em loose again? ‘Cause we _will_ have to cut them, I’m almost sure of that, if she’s even half as fucked up as her friends in Holding make her sound—and once they get a peep at what we have that they don’t, they ain’t gonna go easy.”

Foster just shakes his head, like he’s somewhat amused by Brianna’s dramatics. “Well, I want to _talk_ to her first, that’s for sure. You can tell that pair you got in Holding that, send ‘em back, then send Merle out there for the answer, maybe—get her to set up a meeting, on neutral territory.”

Brianna huffs. “Not Merle, they all hate him, and the feeling’s more than mutual. ‘Sides which, his brother’s apparently still with ‘em, alive; we send him out there and he sees Daryl, we’ll never get him back.”

“All right, then send Andrea, with Michonne. _She_ ’s at least got something to come back for, am I right?”

He shoots Brianna a cocked-eyebrow look, like he’s trying to be funny, but it doesn’t really come off, not all the way—and in thinking about it, Brianna somewhat gets the idea it’s not supposed to.

“That’s the hope,” she says, coolly. “All right, will do. I’ll keep you apprised.”

“From now on? Please do. Much appreciated, Ms. Blake.”

And: _Oh, IS it, Mister Foster?_ Brianna thinks, neck-hairs ruffing up further. _Well, then. I’ll remember that._

Something's going to have to change, and soon, that’s clear enough— _will_ change, no matter what, just like always. But change is opportunity, if you can only get out ahead of it, seize its reins, and kick. If you can only make sure _you’re_ the one deciding on what gets changed, and how, and when...

But this is nothing new, any of it. This is, quite literally, the story of Brianna Blake’s life.

Likes to fix things just as much as she does to break ‘em, as she figured out about herself pretty early on—things, situations, people. To some degree, it’s a function of not wanting to be left behind, wanting to make herself important, indispensable, loved. Ths last part’s mainly an impossibility, as she gets, and always has; how can she possibly hope to require from others something she’s never really thought herself capable of, not even when she knew it had to be true? But she does do her best, or tries to.

It’s to her credit, therefore, that Penn at least died feeling loved, and Sean too, probably—she thinks, anyhow. She’s _almost_ sure. But then again, poor Penn didn’t live long enough to ever really know his own Mama, just like Sean didn’t ever really know his own wife, just the image of her he kept in his mind’s eye; same image Brianna’d worked so hard to build, and spent most of her non-job-related energy maintaining. Didn’t ever really get to know what she was truly capable of, the either of ‘em...

...and thank Christ for that, in hindsight.


	6. Chapter 6

“Just can’t believe Loren Grimes is _dead,_ ” Andrea says, with this sort of wondering little break in her voice, and Brianna nods her head sagely, pretending like she cares; tell the truth, she’s kind of amazed any one of ‘em’s still left alive up at that place, given the ridiculous stunts they’ve apparently pulled. But: “Tell me about this Erica Grimes,” she replies, instead, into the soft, nice-smelling flesh of Andrea’s lower back, and Andrea sighs, shifting slightly.

“What do you want to know?” she asks, eventually, the _and why?_ unspoken, but there all the same.

“Oh, everything, or anything. Whatever you deem...most pertinent.”

Tries to make it sound unthreatening, but at this Andrea abruptly turns over, fixing her with those cornflower-coloured sharpshooter eyes; Brianna keeps her head bent low, smiling up through her bangs, chin still denting the warm ridge of Andrea’s thigh. Breathing out slow and meeting Andrea’s gaze without a hint of reticence, like: _what, there a problem here? C’mon, now, honey; really. I mean..._

 _...not from_ my _angle._

“They’re good people,” Andrea tells her, firmly, “and not just Erica, either—all of them. They’re _not_ a threat. You get that, right?”

“I do, and I’ve told Rich so already, believe me. But the fact is he wants to meet with her, so it’s _my_ job to figure out how likely it is she’s gonna put a bullet in him the first time he does something stupid, which he probably will.”

Andrea shakes her head. “It won’t come to that.”

“Hopefully not, no. But it might.”

“It _won’t._ We’ll make sure of it.” A pause, then: “ _I_ will.”

“How, exactly?”

“I _will,_ ” Andrea repeats. And looks away.

Hmmm, and _‘Course you will,_ Brianna thinks. _Promises you can’t keep, the hero’s stock in trade; risk your own life in a minute over what you think is right, not taking even a second to think how you might be risking everybody else’s right along with it._ It’s like Philip trying to keep the old lady off’ve his poor little sister only to get the both of ‘em beat on twice as damn hard, but with less broom-handle, and far more cunnilingus.

But that’s Andrea, all over: so welcoming, so warm, tender heart ever-open; sun-bright in her soul, if not her brain. Wants to believe, to trust, to save everybody she can, and it’s...well, it’s beautiful, though impractical. It’s _precious._ It makes Brianna ache for her, all over—inside, as much as out-.

“Oh baby,” she says, a trifle sadly. “You really do believe that, don’t you? Poor you.”

“People aren’t as bad as you think they are, Bri. They can’t be.”

“Sure they can. I am.”

Scoffing: “Stop it.”

Brianna snorts at that, but lets it slide. “You’ve gotta admit, though,” she continues, gently, “most people simply aren’t trustworthy, at base, ‘specially under pressure. They’ll let you down, if you’re dumb enough to let ‘em. It’s just human nature.”

“Uh huh, okay, I see what you mean—but I think you’re the one who’s wrong, that’s all. Can we drop the subject?”

A shrug. “You _want_ to think so, and I can respect that; might be you’re gonna have to re-evaluate that stance, though, maybe even one day soon. Luck runs out.”

Which in turn makes Andrea sit up all the further, back straightening, face flushing. “You saying it’s mainly _good_ luck I’ve had, thus far?” she throws out. “Whole world falls to shit, I get to see Amy—my sister’s—throat bit out by dead people, watch her turn, put a bullet in her brain...and Mich, Jesus, leading two corpses ‘round on chains for months, but she still can’t say word one about what _she_ ’s lost? Or you, for that matter, with Penn—”

At the sound of her dead son’s name Brianna feels her hands tighten ‘round Andrea’s hips, maybe harder than she originally meant to, though hopefully not enough to hurt. But she wills her voice deeper, keeps it clean, and manages to reply, without rancor: 

“Yeah, he’s dead, just like your Amy, and that’s sad—but so’re thousands of other people, hundreds of thousands; we see ‘em out the window every day, over the wall. Still, _you_ ’re alive, aren’t you? And Michonne, Milton, Merle...that whole group of yours, over at the prison, when you probably never thought you’d see any of ‘em again...” 

“You too.”

“Yeah, me too. All of us. Because we fought. Because we _won._ ”

Andrea goggles down at her a moment, probably still not quite able to believe what she’s hearing, then finally cracks a smile.

“Gunpowder and blood, huh?” she asks, lightly. Like it’s a joke.

“ _Now_ you’re gettin’ it,” Brianna says, approvingly. And slides back down beneath the covers.


	7. Chapter 7

Such a damn simple plan, yet it still takes Brianna twice as long as it should to get Merle to understand the whole of it, mainly ‘cause he’s being intentionally difficult; never does like to have to share space with Milton for overlong, an uncomfortable fact of life that goes all the way back to their formative days in Atlanta together, crammed into a too-small apartment and tripping over each other every five seconds, in and between bouts of combat with the living dead. Nothing new, therefore, though still annoying enough it’d drive Brianna crazy, if she let it.

“I’m not sure what part of this you’re findin’ hard to process, Mister Dixon, exactly,” she says, finally. “Not like we’re gonna do anything to that brother of yours, and I was under the distinct impression you didn’t give much of a damn about anybody else up there, _particularly_ Erica Grimes. Am I wrong?”

“No, but—”

“But what, then? I’ll reiterate: Rich Foster wants a meet-up, so we take him there but things go wrong, and Officer Grimes gets the blame. Your part of the job can be entirely reduced to makin’ sure Daryl doesn’t get in the way, that makes you feel any better.”

“What ‘bout blondie?”

“Andrea’s mine to deal with, like usual.”

“And Michonne?”

“Deal with _her,_ too, if I have to.” Flaring up, a second later, as Merle chuckles: “What, you think I can’t?”

“Girlie, what I _think_ is if the two of you ever do throw down, that’s gonna be some damn thing t’see...but much as I do like me some cat-fight action, I ain’t altogether sure it’s somethin’ I need to watch anytime soon, you get me?” Brianna snorts, squares her shoulders and goes to turn away, only to find Merle’s stump on her elbow, restraining her; she freezes, as he continues: “Hey, listen up a minute, okay? That bitch is a wild card, wilder even than you, and hell yeah, that scares me. Should scare you too, you weren’t thinkn’ with your—” She shoots him her patented death-stare, making him let go; he steps back a bit, muttering: “Aw, hell, _you_ know. Just don’t want you gettin’ hurt, or of any of the rest’ve us, either.”

And: _how nice,_ Brianna’s just about to jeer, when Milton puts his two cents in instead, surprising both of them. “Let her go,” he orders, from the corner, and doesn’t give an inch, not even when Merle rounds on him. “You’ve trusted she knows what she’s doing this far, so I think you need to calm down and remember where you’d still be, if you hadn’t...”

“Ain’t forgot none of that, geek-boy! Just don’t see why we should be in such an ever-lovin’ rush t’ get rid of ol’ Mayor Foster when she already steers him ‘round like a rodeo bull, without even havin’ to put out, or nothin’—”

“I’m sure she has her _reasons,_ you...dirty-minded ignoramus...”

“Yeah? Well I ain’t _sure_ of shit, not ‘til it gets explained to me!”

Christ, it’s like watching two kids on a playground; all this posturing, this ridiculous bullshit men put themselves through on a daily basis, just so one of them can pretend the average size of a dick is ten inches instead of five. She’s seen it all her life, from her and Philip’s mostly-absent father or any one of the old lady’s boyfriends right on down to Philip himself, to Sean, to Ross—how guys choose to deal with stress, or rather don’t: spat and bark, play alpha vs. beta, punch the walls, punch each other.

 _Wouldn’t live like that if you paid me,_ she finds herself thinking for hardly the first time, or anything near to the last.

So: _breathe,_ Brianna tells herself, and does so, through her nose, ‘til this storm behind her eyes goes back to being still and quiet. Then puts in, cold but clear, as Merle opens his big, dumb mouth yet again—

“Yes, well...pleasant as it’d be if this was all up to me, gentlemen, it’s just not; Foster’s got his back up, and he’s looking at me funny—wants to take me down if not out, for reasons I’m not exactly clear on. But given both of you go down too, if that happens, I’d’ve thought you’d prefer me makin’ sure I get in a few good licks first.”

“ _I_ do,” Milton assures her, quietly, while Merle just scoffs. “Sure you ain’t on the rag?” he asks. “I mean, Foster’s been here from the start—he knows exactly how much this place owes you, what you do here, on the daily: all the dirty work, stuff nobody else wants to have to mess their hands up in. Have t’ be an idiot to take _that_ shit on, he didn’t have to.”

“Hmmm, uh huh. And I’d find that thought a whole lot more comfortin’, I didn't already know for sure him bein’ an idiot’s just the tip of the iceberg.” A pause. “Or do you think I’m bein’ hormonal about _that,_ too?”

“...not really, no.”

“Well, then.”

Which defuses it, finally. The rest of the conversation goes about as smoothly as plotting any king’s removal from office usually does, ‘specially when it’s a case of kill or be killed. When Merle finally takes himself off, Milton shows her what he’s been working on for the last little while, and she’s happy to see it’s almost up to speed. “Just need to make it a _bit_ smaller, you want to carry it around without people noticing,” he says, as she nods.

“You test it yet?” she asks; he shakes his head. “Huh, all right. Want me to do it for you?”

“Um, certainly. Where were you—”

“Oh, out at the pits, Have to go up there anyhow, and it’s the perfect place, really.”

“To meet with Michonne, you mean?” Brianna nods, and watches a shadow pass over Milton’s bespectacled face, lips tightening; practically biting his own tongue to keep quiet, poor bastard, if only to make sure she doesn’t mistake him for Merle. When he finally builds up enough courage to ask: “Are you...absolutely sure that’s wise?”, she feels an odd stab of pride, like when Penn brought home his first A- in math.

“Michonne and I understand each other, Milton. We’re cut from the same cloth—similar, anyhow.” Then slaps him on the shoulder, when he doesn’t look persuaded: “Hell, cheer up! Worst that can happen is I turn out to be wrong, and it’s not like I can’t see her coming, right?”

“I suppose not.” He looks down, thinks, then ventures, timidly: “Andrea’s not going to like it if you end up having to kill her, uh...best friend, though.Don’t you think?”

“Not at first, no—but given how things have gone thus far, I can talk my way around that, eventually. With enough time.”  


“Well, um...that’s right, of course, you can. Probably.”

Brianna isn’t much fond of that last addition, but she nods nevertheless, dialling her smile up to dazzling just to watch Milton blush and bloom under its weight, a flower turning towards the sun. Musing how she misses the old days on occasion, back when it was her, him and Penn at first, followed by just her and him—easier by far to push his buttons, that’s for sure, when he didn’t feel like he had to fight anybody else for her attention. And let’s face it, that must surely get to feel more than a little bit wearing, for a person who never really thought he could _fight,_ in the first place.

Finding Merle’d been a blessing, in its way; made sure she no longer had to force Milton to defend himself anymore, as the price of her company. Pushing them together made them _have_ to adapt just in order to work with each other, learning from each other in order to ensure the whole group’s survival. And there she’d stood, watching, spitting out almost the very same tough love mantra that’d driven her from home at age fifteen: _Got no use for either of you broke, so fix yourselves, goddamnit; do it or don’t, catch up, and keep up. Might’ve been somebody’s Mama, but it wasn’t yours. We’re all in this together—in this world, we kill or we die, or we die, and we kill._

Thank God for the apocalypse, Brianna Blake finds herself thinking, almost every day. Too bad it’d taken the world falling to shit, but finally, the way she’d never been able to keep herself from feeling about things was normal, useful, necessary. Enlightened self-interest, the cornerstone of survival—build a unit, keep it together, wear it like armor. Then take on all comers, ‘til you either break free, or go down fighting.

Family. It all boils down to that, doesn’t it? The urge to form one, to unite against the work: every she-wolf wants her pack, a place to channel all that aggravating emotional overspill into, that same murderous desire for love that’s driven her forward all her life. Possessive love, protective love, the kind of love that tells you you’re the centre of the world, that you’re wanted and needed. A love you’ll kill, or die, for.

That’s what it is for him, at any rate, she hopes—Merle too, under the bluster, though now he has Daryl to look forward to again, or close as makes no never-mind, that may shift underfoot somewhat. Ah, well. She’ll keep Milton to the end, however bitter, unless she mismanages him beyond all hope of repair; made sure of that one night during those initial weeks, while Penn snored beside them.

She can see it, even now: face all scrunched up in ecstasy with his glasses set askew, last of his orgasm spitting hot onto both their sweaty stomachs as she stripped him hard, humping his fingers ‘til she finally came too in a burst of hot salt. Cold little Milton Mamet, his cherry popped at last and oh so grateful to have finally—literally—touched another human being deeply enough to watch them make that particular bodily circuit as well, right along with him.

 _Sentiment,_ she thinks, feeling her mind skip back to Andrea, almost as romantic in that way as any man, then hurry on past to Michonne: hypervigilant, practical, a killer; like looking in a mirror, somewhat, give or take the dreads and the extra melanin. Brianna’s seen enough of the woman to know her rage comes from almost the same place, her pride in efficiency, her impulse to break and cut and burn. Her loyalty to the living at the expense of the dead, as well as the living—specific living, those she cherishes, for one reason of another—at the expense of the living.

 _We understand each other,_ she tells herself, again, inside her head. Not knowing that one day soon, she’ll be forced to confront the undeniable fact that—just as, in her own case, mere sanity doesn’t necessarily equal altruism—Michonne’s inborn ability to understand why Brianna Blake makes the decisions she makes may not, in the end, mean she actually _approves_ of them.


	8. Chapter 8

Michonne is, indeed, up at the pits. That’s where she likes it best, and Brianna doesn’t blame her: things are easy there, predictable in the long run, but never in the short. Keeps the juices flowing.

She likes to come up on foot, after having vaulted over the wall somewhere, or slipped through a literal crack in their security system—checking the perimeter is part of the spectrum of duties Brianna ended up giving her free licence to perform at her own discretion, once she’d been around Michonne long enough to know the woman wasn’t fit for much else, in terms of Woodbury’s more “civilized” job-streams. And it’s mainly worked out, thus far; once she finds a breach she almost always tips the sentries off before using it, so they can call in the maintenance crew and get it plugged back up before she returns.

So yeah, Michonne’s an outdoors cat, for sure, and Brianna can respect that. She knows her own limits, practices a type of self-care, self-regulation. The fact said practice usually takes the form of kata-ing her way through however many biters Milton’s wind-towers have summoned forth, all silent, stone-faced yet occasionally-smiling fury—meditation in motion, with extra blood-spray—is just a welcome side-benefit, as is the sheer tactile pleasure Brianna derives from witnessing it, whenever she can.

“How you ‘n’ Andrea ever hooked up in the first place, that’s a real mystery to me,” she told her one night, early on, as they both stood on the porch while Andrea dozed inside, Brianna nursing a drink but Michonne stoic-sober as ever, staring out over main street with her arms crossed. “I mean, I understand the simple mechanics of it: she says you saved her, kept her alive all through that winter, never asked for anything in return save the pleasure of her company—and given how pleasant said company can be, I certainly sympathize. But it’s not _like_ that, with you two, is it?”

And: “Nope,” Michonne answered, without turning—not over-happy with the line of questioning, from what Brianna could gather, but not necessarily insulted by it, either. “We’re friends, that’s all. No benefits beyond having somebody to watch your back, while you watch theirs.”

“Uh huh. Like me and Milton, and Merle.”

This at least drew a side-flicked eye, brow hiking. “Didn’t know you thought of ‘em as _friends,_ exactly,” Michonne said, and Brianna shrugged.

“Depends on how you define the term, I guess,” she replied. “I mean, most friendships have their base in mutual utility, don’t you think?”

“Is that what _you_ think?”

“Would it disappoint you, if I did?”

Now it was Michonne’s turn to shrug, a bit more tightly. “Not really,” she claimed, finally. “We’ve all done stuff, right? Good and bad; we’re all guilty, by yesterday’s standards. So we don’t get to pass judgement anymore, not on what’s already over and done with.”

“‘Never trust a survivor, ‘til you know what they did to stay alive,’” Brianna quoted. “Vonnegut, I think; had to take him in university, to finish a course. Who knew all this science fiction bullshit was gonna come so much in handy one day, huh?”

“Who indeed,” Michonne replied. “Look, Brianna, this probably goes without saying—”

“Oh, go on and say it anyways. So we both know where we stand.”

“—but I _do_ care about that woman in there, sex or not, as I think you actually get. So if you hurt her, in any way, then...much as we get along, right here and now...I’m gonna have to kill you.”

“Poor, oh-so-easily-hurtable Andrea? Well, noted. I’ll make sure to keep that in mind, from now on.”

To which Michonne’d just nodded, without rancor. And they’d sat there maybe fifteen minutes more, enjoying the cool night air, ‘til Brianna’d finally bid her goodnight and taken herself back inside. ‘Til she’d lain back down next to Andrea, taking comfort in the way she immediately opened her arms for her, folding her in tight.

Now here they are again, alone together. Brianna makes sure to crack a stick or two on her way out of the woods, watching Michonne spin at the sound and look her way, tip her head in acknowledgement, dreads swinging slightly. Gives her a big ol’ grin in return, then stands there a minute as Michonne neatly dodges one biter, letting it fall into the pit, before decapitating the remaining two stragglers with one upswung slash; Brianna claps, and strides up to meet her right by Milton’s eternally slow-spun moan-machine, which she proceeds to momentarily silence by bracing one end of a tire-iron through one of its lowest holes, driving the other deep into the ground with a single well-aimed stomp.

“What’s that for?” Michonne asks, more wary than curious. Brianna smiles again.

“Little somethin’ Milton whipped up,” she replies. “It’s new.”

The thumper goes into the ground as well, good red Georgia soil, cleat-first. Works somewhat like a golf tee, in that respect, while in all others it reminds Brianna of nothing so much as that scene in _Dune_ —Paul and his Mama stumbling ‘round in the endless desert, walking without rhythm, to avoid summoning the worm. _They can hear well enough to track noise, we all know that,_ Milton’s explained, _but what about vibrations? Something deep down that’d bring every walker for miles around running, or, um...staggering, at least, without alerting any nearby human beings to the imminent danger?_

Brianna’s wanted to weaponize zombies ever since she saw her first herd of them swarming like slow but relentless ants, taking down everything in their path. If they’re gonna be around all the time anyhow then it only makes sense to make use of them, like everything—and everybody—else.

She flicks the thumper on, and hunkers down to wait with one hand braced on the ground, feeling its pulse like a heartbeat. Michonne waits too, sword-point down, not quite leaning on it; she knows there’s something up, can _feel_ it, even if she can’t hear it. A pure hunting animal to her core.

The approaching moans come quick after that, quicker by far than those other three Michonne just disposed of, and she and Brianna rise to meet them as one, weapons at the ready: silenced gun, knife, katana. Punch and thrust, spin and kick, throwing corpses back and forth at each other with a free, ferocious will, like they’ve both been dropped headfirst into their true element. Like every other sort of experience, no matter how nice, can’t really hope to compete.

“That’s quite the thing,” Michonne tells her, later, as they stand wavering shoulder-to-shoulder, lungs stripped and muscles burning pleasantly, all soaked with rot and sweat. “What’s it _for,_ exactly, besides the exercise?”

“Oh, you never do know,” Brianna replies, still high enough it makes her happy simply to contemplate what sort of mischief this doo-dad will let her get up to in future, if applied just right. Then tips a nearby drum of gasoline into the pit at their feet, now crammed to its gills with biters trying their level best to clamber over each other up the muddy sides, and pops a match on her thumbnail before flicking it in. The flames jump up, illuminating her and Michonne both together, their roar like some huge cat’s purr—sheer pleasure, good as any massage. Far too bright to let her see exactly how shrewdly Michonne’s contemplating her behind her back, as she scoops the thumper back up and retrieves her tire iron as well, letting the wind-tower swing free.

“Rich Foster wants to meet with Officer Grimes,” Brianna tells Michonne, while they walk away. “Wants me to bring Andrea along as well, ‘course, seein’ how she knows her best.”

Michonne frowns. “I’m comin’ too, then—that woman’s edge of batshit crazy at the very least, if not more. Merle tell you how she started talkin’ to her dead husband while we were there?”

“He did.”

“Yeah, and she almost killed those four who came back with us, to hear them tell it...you’ve met them, right? Tyreese and his sister, Alan and his boy?” Brianna nods. “They claim she’d’ve left them locked in the part of the prison got its ass open to the wind, her son hadn’t begged her not to. And even then, she still told ‘em they couldn’t stay.”

“Her loss, our gain,” Brianna says, mind racing ahead, spinning plans and counter-plans. “But you’re right, of course—she’s really that unstable, we’re gonna need all the backup we can get. Glad to have you on board.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Andrea. You know yourself how you couldn’t keep me away, not even if you wanted to.”

“Not even then,” Brianna agrees. And grins even wider.


	9. Chapter 9

The trip up to the meet-point goes about as well as can be expected, which is a small enough mercy, in hindsight. Two cars, segregated by sex, not that they necessarily designed it that way—just that Rich Foster all of a sudden opted to ride with Merle and Milton at the last moment, leaving Brianna, Andrea and Michonne to share the second vehicle. Andrea drives, Brianna sitting shotgun and studying the back of Foster’s head through the windshield, in and between sparing the occasional glance for Michonne in the back seat. They pass evidence of herds having moved through—carrion, litter, crapped-out vehicles and such—but not much in the way of actual biters, genuine roamers, slow-paced moaning walkers. That’ll change, though, Brianna thinks, feeling the second-gen version of Milton’s thumper knock against her heart under her vest as she shifts, trying to get comfortable.

”You okay?” Andrea asks. “Tried to move the seat back as far as it’d go, but maybe it wasn’t enough.”

Brianna just shrugs, crossing her legs a bit tighter. “I’m used to it.”

It’s sweet, though—tough as she is, morally uncompromising as she tries to be, Andrea really does care; she’s a bleeding heart under it all, in every sense of the phrase. And that’s just one of the many fine qualities that’ll make her a far better bet for Woodbury to pull its full weight behind, as a leader, than Rich Foster’s ever been, or ever could be.  


So there we go: pop him out, pop her in, boom, done—not if but when, damn soon if Brianna has anything to say about it, which she obviously does. ‘Cause bad a place to die though the red zone might be, it’s still the single best (or make that easiest, maybe) place Brianna knows of in which to get somebody else killed.

Took Merle aside yesterday, for one more heart to heart. He’s been skittish ever since seeing that brother of his in the flesh, as she thought he might be; had to reassure him several times that Daryl’s got a guaranteed place set aside for him in post-Rich Foster Woodbury, no matter this confab’s outcome. When Merle finally, reluctantly allowed as how his younger sibling might just possibly take Officer Grimes’s death hard enough to refuse to change sides entirely, meanwhile, Brianna did her level best to soothe that over, too.

“Now, don’t be negative, Mister Dixon—might not come to that at all, the herd gets there fast enough. And even if they do, I’ve no doubt he’s a smart enough guy to cut his own losses...”

“You don’t know my little brother, girlie. Always been the sweet one in our family, and it’s cost him; once he latches onto a person, he ain’t too fast to give ‘em up. Somewhat impractical, in that way.”

“All right, I’m sure you know best about these things. But blood’s still blood, or am I wrong about that, too? You sayin’ you can’t make him come to heel, not even if you have to?”

Merle huffed at that, visibly annoyed, though more so at himself than at her. “Might be I can, might be I can’t—ain’t seen him in a year, for shit’s sake. But...I’ll do my best.”

“Hmmm, well. That’s all we can ever ask, huh?”

Word is, Daryl Dixon’s pretty much Officer Grimes’s right-hand man these days, though not in a prurient way. Andrea says that part was divided between dead Mister Grimes and the good Officer’s former partner, one Shane Walsh. _Big dark-haired guy, liked to scuffle, thought he was charming,_ Andrea told her, dismissively, before finally admitting she’d actually allowed herself to be “charmed” a time or two, before things fell apart over at Hershel Greene’s farm. ‘Cause she’s got a bit of a thing for bad...people, as Brianna’s been happy to note.

"Grimes liked to call herself Officer Friendly, so what you think that made _him?_ " Merle asked, rhetorically, when Brianna quized him on the subject. "First one to stomach-punch ya an’ put on the choke-hold ‘til ya pass out, that’s who, so ol’ Merle won’t be sheddin’ any tears over THAT prick anytime soon. Hell, ‘f I saw him walkin’ ‘round all dead, I wouldn’t even waste a bullet—stick my blade in his eye instead, ‘cause that’s about all he was worth, that pretty piece of bacon."

To which Brianna’d basically just stood there nodding, thinking: _Doesn’t matter much either way now, does it? He’s dead and she killed him, probably to keep her husband alive, not that that seems to’ve worked out all too well for her, in the long run._ But then again, that’s the way of it, especially these days: one man’s bad enough under normal circumstances, let alone two...

"Loren never liked Shane in the first place," Andrea continued, last night, "but he went along with him while they both thought Erica was dead, for Carl’s sake—that’s their boy, took it hard when his Mom ended up in a coma, after getting shot on the job. And Loren, he was all kinds of crap at keeping it all inside; they’d been having problems for years, and Shane had that hail-fellow-well-met bullshit going for him, you know? He could be funny, and he really did love her; Carl knew it, too." A beat. "Which was another thing Loren didn’t like and just couldn’t shut the fuck up about, to save his damn life."

"Think Carl could’ve been Shane’s kid, too? Explain a lot, if so."

A laugh. "Yeah, Loren might’ve thought so—probably did, the idiot—but you wouldn’t ask, if you’d seen him; that boy’s a perfect combination of his folks, pretty much. Got his Dad’s height and his Mom’s eyes, his Dad’s passive aggressiveness and his Mom’s jackass stubborn pride, like two different genes for never, EVER letting shit go." Another beat. "No, but Erica and Shane, they grew up together...even went out for a while in high school, before they figured out what a mistake _that_ would’ve been. Then she went off to university, met Loren and got married, while Shane stayed back in Cynthiana, fucking around. Met up again when she joined the sheriff’s department, and they’d been partners ever since...’til the coma, that is. ‘Til this."

"And she just, what—woke up in the hospital, got herself out, found out what the world was like and just kept on goin’? Tracked ‘em down somehow, with a thousand and one biters in between?" Brianna shook her head, admiringly. "That’s one tough woman."

Andrea nodded. "Tough as hell. And things were okay, for a while; they were glad to see her, all of ‘em. But then...something happened, I don’t know what. I think Shane might’ve done something, when we were all at the CDC, all drunk and celebrating: tried to mark his territory, you know? Gross as that sounds, and is. So later, when Erica figured out she was pregnant, he was sure it was his—wanted to be her number-one, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I remember him looking at Loren, like he was measuring him for a body-bag; we all knew he’d killed one dude already and covered it up, back when Carl got shot. So if she killed him, it’d’ve been over that, and I can see Loren not wanting to be grateful, after."

"Men," Brianna said, shrugging. "That’s how they are."

"Says the woman who married one."

"Well, sure—I mean, he asked. I met Sean at university too. He was...easy. A good guy, I think. Easier than the alternative."

"But...you _are_ gay, basically. Right?"

"Asks the woman lyin’ in my bed!" Now it was her turn to pause. "No, I don’t think so...not entirely, anyway; I like everything, always have. Don’t see why I shouldn’t. But you have to live in this world, don’t you?"

"Not anymore, you don’t want to," Andrea pointed out. To which Brianna just smiled, replying: "True enough! Hell, these days, anybody wants to talk shit about what I do, or with who, I can just shoot ‘em. Must admit, I like that a _whole_ lot better..."

...then grinned again, wider yet, to show it was just a joke.

But here they are: the meet-point, Foster’s car drawing to a stop, Andrea pulling in right behind. And one from the prison too, already waiting.

“You’re late,” Officer Erica Grimes tells them all, scowling.


	10. Chapter 10

Thus finally revealed, the prison’s legendary leader turns out to be fierce yet _tiny,_ all muscle and bone except for her huge belly, hair thick-curled and wild as ram’s wool, a reddish-brown mop shot through with widening streaks of grey. Her eyes are true killer-blue, set in a frontierswoman squint; she has a firm jawline and a cute little cleft in her chin, lips full, teeth showing like she’s constantly on the point of a barely-withheld snarl. Can’t wear her gun-belt anymore, though she holds tight to the last vague shreds of her uniform (open shirt flapping slightly ‘round her sweat-stained man-cut tee, no-nonsense slacks let out far beyond their last comfortable point and held in place with rope, an improvised extender strung macrame-style between belt-loops), so she keeps it slung shoulder-to-hip like a bandolier, holster resting square between her swollen breasts like a .357 pacemaker.

“Erica Grimes, Deputy for the King’s County Sheriff’s Office, out of Cynthiana,” she tells Foster, her voice low, hoarse, like she’s spent a lot of time screaming recently. “And you are?”

Foster blinks, knocked a bit aback by this vision in front of him. “Rich Foster, ma’am,” he manages, finally, “representing Woodbury Township. Like Andrea here should’ve told you, when we sent her up, we’re here to just...welcome you, is all. To the neighbourood.”

“Their leader, then. The hand on Merle Dixon’s leash, when he took my people.”

“Uh, well, not as such. Dixon’s in the— _employ_ —of our security chief here, Miss Blake. So...” Indicating her, with a nod: “How’s about it, Brianna? Feel like fieldin’ this one?”

 _Hmmm, why not._ “Sure, Rich,” Brianna replies, stepping forward. “Spoke to your man Glenn Rhee at the time, Officer Grimes, as I’m sure he’s told you; Merle bringin’ him and Miss Greene in was nothin’ but a simple misunderstanding, and one he’s been well-chastized for, since. Just saw ‘em and got all caught up in a PTSD flashback, like you do—to that roof in Atlanta, one you left him cuffed on, remember? When he had to cut his own hand off?”

Grimes looks over at Merle, who raises his bayonet with a grim smile, like he’s giving her the finger; opens her mouth to reply, only to have Daryl come to her defence, putting in: “Hey, that was _his_ choice, lady—ain’t nothin’ but a goddamn lie, he tells you any different. We came back for him, I made sure of that, but he was already gone—”

“Sure, that’s right,” Merle throws back, fast enough. “Didn’t look all too hard for me after, though, did ya, Darylina? ‘Cause I was out there a whole day and a night ‘fore Brianna here found me, stumblin’ ‘round with my stump cooked shut, and I didn’t see hide nor _hair_ of you’n Officer Friendly, here—”

“We looked, all right! You was gone, didn’t leave no trail, not with the dead all every-which-way in between...”

“Easy ‘nough to say, li’l brother, twelve whole months late. And how ‘bout you, Miz Grimes, huh? Too busy cozyin’ up with hubby, I bet, in an’ between cheating on HIS ass with that sorry pig Shane Walsh—”

Grimes gives a start at that, hand slapping up for the butt of her gun. Before she can draw, though, Brianna snaps out a “Just shut the fuck _up,_ Merle”—thus guaranteeing that everyone switches their attention back to her, hands already up and spread, head dipped, voice soothing. “See what I mean?” she remarks, to Grimes. “Old wounds make emotions run high, just like tempers. But this’s all in the past, huh? Right. No need to bring it up again; let’s us start fresh—start over.”

Grimes pauses a moment, like she’s thinking it over; picture of normalcy, at least ‘til Brianna sees her eyes slide suddenly sidelong, then narrow, like she’s listening to some invisible somebody whisper advice in her ear. Behind her, “little” brother Daryl looms, crossbow put up and those impressive-as-hell biceps flexed, scowling over her head like a hunting hound all set to defend that feral cat he’s somehow adopted. Dwarfs her, too; hell, he dwarfs most of them, ‘sides from Brianna herself, who meets his gaze coolly, daring him to start shit just so she can see what follows. To which Daryl mainly glares back but doesn’t bite, which is a bit disappointing, at least in terms of making her own fun.

“...All right,” Grimes says, at last—to Brianna, not Foster. Which Foster can’t help but notice, and doesn’t seem to appreciate: what else is new? So Brianna simply ignores him, nodding; moves a step more forward, like she’s clearing the way. Like she’s gonna lead them both inside and sit ‘em down herself, and there’s nothing at all he can do about it.

“Excellent,” she says, smiling. “Mister Foster? Just gonna go check the perimeter, with y’all’s permission; I believe you have the floor.”

Outside, she passes Milton and that old one-legged vet of theirs, that Hershel Greene, sitting with their heads bent together—nothin’ much like that daughter of his, standing guard to the east while her husband-to-be covers things westward, rifle cocked at an angle like she yearns to shove it up Brianna’s ass. Michonne’s to the north and Andrea to the south, raising a brow as she draws near the treeline. 

“Where you going?” she asks, and: “Nature calls,” Brianna replies, striding past. “Just be a minute, at the most.”

“Oh, okay. Careful in there.”

“Always, darlin’.”

Unzipping, Brianna squats and does the deed, digging Milton’s thumper in deep as it’ll go before she turns it on. Then re-orders herself and goes back inside, rejoining the sit-down already in progress, though Foster’s the only who’s sitting. Grimes prowls back and forth instead, hand on hip, while Foster tries—and fails—to keep the conversation on track.

“Listen, Officer,” he begins again, struggling to keep his voice even, “all’s I’m saying is...seems to me, you might be in dire need of a bit of _true_ medical assistance, ‘specially in the near future. You took the prison, and that’s quite the achievement, considering how small your group is—but it can’t be all too comfortable, not for children like your son, or a recent amputee, like Mr Greene out there. Let alone a baby.”

Grimes shakes her head, as though to clear it. “Yeah? Well, we’re not leavin’, all the same. We spilled blood takin’ that place—people died, _good_ people. It’s ours, and we’re damn well keepin’ it.”

Foster frowns. “Not implyin’ you _can’t,_ ma’am—not in any way, shape or form. Just want to make you aware we’ve got a nice little med center over in Woodbury, and it’s at your disposal, should you care to make use of it.”

“Uh huh. And what do _you_ get out of that, exactly?”

“Um...community-building, networking, opening up potential trade routes? The sheer Christian pleasure of doin’ whatever good you can for your nearest neighbours?” He leans forward, putting on his I’m-a-good-guy face, same one Brianna’s seen him use to slide whatever dubious laws best benefit his inner circle of cronies through council, almost every ther day. “Now, I understand you’ve got doubts, and I don’t blame you—structures’ve all collapsed, and that’s gotta be hard, ‘specially for a woman used to bein’ in a position of authority. But this only _looks_ like the end of the world, Miz Grimes; history’s shown us over and over how things fall down, only to rise again. All’s it takes it cooperation, effort...faith.”

At this, Grimes snorts, brows hiking; her mouth crimps, lips whitening slightly, as her voice drops low and flattens, taking on a scary timbre. “Wouldn’t really try to appeal to my Bible side if I was you, Mister Foster,” she says, finally. “Him and me aren’t on speakin’ terms, seein’ how last time I asked him for something he let my son get shot; wasn’t all too much help when I had to kill my best friend or watch my husband get his throat bit out, either. Which is why I mainly let Him alone, now, and make my own damn decisions.”

Foster clears his throat, audibly. “I, uh, meant no offence.”

“None taken.” A beat. “Yet.”

And: _Oh, I could fall hard for_ you, _you crazy little hooker,_ Brianna thinks, suddenly gone tingly from head to toe, even with Andrea almost within reaching distance; just wants to pick this little freak up and ruffle her all over, groom her with her tongue. Because Andrea is strong, sweet and heroically-inclined, predictable in her supposed unpredictability, but Erica Grimes...she’s wildfire, a live current, a trainwreck. Probably doesn’t have the first idea what she’s gonna do herself, most of the time, and that’s mystifying, frustrating. Fascinating.

Amused by her own ridiculousness, Brianna shakes her head, just slightly—subtle enough most couldn’t catch it, though she thinks Merle Dixon might’ve, staring at her all shrewdly like he is. Knows her well enough to know she truly does have a type, after all, given how well he fits it: him, Milton, Michonne. Maybe not unfixable but broke as shit nonetheless, and all the more interesting for it, ‘specially to a late-convert adrenaline junkie like her...someone who’s knows forever that there’s something wrong with her, so thank God she does even have to try and hide it anymore. Thank God she’s finally living in a time bad enough to turn all her former weaknesses into strengths, even as the supposed strengths of others turn into weaknesses.

Outside, under their feet, the thumper’s already doing its work; can almost feel it, she only tries hard enough. The first walkers’re probably almost at the tree-line—risks a glance confirmation glance, and sees she’s right. Feels her own gun jump into her hand as if magnetized, even as Daryl Dixon yells out a warning, next bolt aimed for her head.

Rich Foster, who at least knows her well enough to still trust her instincts, is already up on his feet. “What is it?” He demands.

“Biters comin’, and lots of ‘em. Must be a herd.”

“Oh, shit!”

“Don’t worry, Rich, we still got a jump on ‘em. Merle, c’mon! Officer Grimes?”

Daryl swoops in, grabbing for Grimes’s arm, but she shakes him off. “’M fine, damnit!” she snaps, turning for the door as well—then stop, abruptly, before doubling over with both hands on her stomach, like she’s been horse-kicked. Says “oh” herself as she does, very softly, not so much in surprise as in unpleasant recognition: an old pain blown up fresh, right when she wasn’t expecting it.

“Erica! Y’okay?”

Grimes barely has time to shake her head, a single, curt jerk, before a gush of blood-tinged water darkens her crotch, her thighs, the floor beneath. Daryl’s eyes go wide. And: “What the _hell,_ gal?!” Merle’s voice brays from the doorway, never one to refrain from stating the obvious. “You ain’t havin’ no baby right damn _now,_ are you?”

“Bet your ass,” Brianna replies, grimly. Then, raising her voice: “Milton! Bring me that old man, and get ready to roll—we got a medical situation. Merle, tell your brother to get her to the car, then have Milton floor it. We’ll follow fast as we can, once we got the first wave knocked out.”

Merle looks at Daryl, who nods. “Better believe we ain’t leavin’ her with you long,” he tells Brianna, warningly, to which Brianna shrugs. “Wouldn’t expect you to,” she says. “Now stop wavin’ your dick around and pick her the fuck _up,_ while you still can!”

He does, hoisting Grimes like she’s nothing even as she gives a grunting groan and doubles once again, soaking them both. Brianna wants to ask her why in the shit she insisted on wearing pants in the first place, given how close to going into labour she must’ve known she was; has one kid already, for Christ’s sake, so it’s not like she doesn’t know the drill. But there’s no time for any of that.

“What about ME?” Foster whines, as they break out the front door, and Brianna yells back that he should stay behind her, knowing he won’t. Betting on it, actually.

Sometimes, she thinks, adding a little bit of chaos to the mix can be exactly what an already-good plan needs, to make it great.


End file.
